No one tells you
how loud it gets
when the buzz wears off.
How you start noticing
the hum of fluorescent lights,
the weight of silence
pressed into your ribs like a bruise
you can’t drink away.
I miss the blur.
The softening of edges.
The way vodka used to kiss me quiet
when my thoughts started screaming.
Now it’s just water.
Dry lips.
The taste of everything I used to avoid.
They call it “clarity”
but it feels like punishment—
like looking in the mirror
under hospital lights
with no makeup
and every regret
etched into the skin.
I miss being reckless.
I miss the glittering edge of a bad decision.
The way it made me feel
alive
and already halfway dead.
Now, I count days
like sins.
Fill notebooks with cravings.
Sip soda at parties
like it’s penance.
People clap when you say
“I’m sober now.”
But they don’t stay long
when you start shaking.
When the high is gone
and all you have left
is the person you were hiding from.
Sobriety looks ugly on me—
not because it’s wrong,
but because it’s honest.
And honesty has never been
my best angle.
But here I am.
Sober.
Still.
Unsmiling.
Alive.
And sometimes
that has to be enough.
Heather Kays is a St. Louis-based poet and author passionate about writing since age 7. Her memoir, Pieces of Us, dissects her mother’s struggles with alcoholism and addiction. Her YA novel, Lila’s Letters, focuses on healing through unsent letters. She runs The Alchemists, an online writing group, and enjoys discussing creativity and complex narratives.
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